


A Broken Lady For Two Bastards

by YourDarkestWishes



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Actual Dark!, Alternate AU - Ramsay Wins The BOTB, Anal Sex, And I Mean Actually Dark! Jon Snow, Anger, Cousin Incest (they don't know they are cousins), Cowgirl Position, Cunnilingus, Dark Character, Dark! Jon Snow, Descent into Madness, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Game of Thrones Canon AU, Hair-pulling, Half-Sibling Incest, Hate Sex, Heed All The Tags, Knifeplay, Masturbation, Mind Games, Mind Manipulation, Mind Rape, Not Semi-Sweet Dark! Jon, Not a Love Story, Object Penetration, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Post-Episode: s06e09 Battle of the Bastards, Psychological Torture, Ramsay is His Own Warning, Rape/Non-con Elements, Resentment, Rough Sex, Sadism, Table Sex, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, Threesome - F/M/M, Voyeurism, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 19:59:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19180369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YourDarkestWishes/pseuds/YourDarkestWishes
Summary: Game Of Thrones AU: Ramsay Bolton intercepts the plan for the Knights Of the Vale and wins the Battle Of The Bastards. He takes as political prisoners his wife-turned-traitor, Sansa Stark Bolton, and his opponent, Jon Snow. He shows exactly what all his "mercy" entails and uncovers dark desires between Lady and Bastard.Prompt request by Anon and Jonarya786.Warnings are tagged. Readers continue knowing the subject matter.  Contains Non-Con/Rape situations and Mental Instability. And smut. There is no storybook romance here, only a simply twisted fic.





	A Broken Lady For Two Bastards

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jonarya786](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jonarya786/gifts), [Anon Somewhere](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Anon+Somewhere).



> Ramsay is his own warning.  
> By prompt request from 2 readers.  
> I will open as multi-chapter if there are enough requests.  
> My sick mind has more ideas.

The tight straps around his wrists cut mercilessly into his skin. Jon struggled to remain impassive as his bleary eyes swept over the hall, noting four guards posted at the entrance with something like sneers painted on their face. One leaned over to whisper to the other and there was a snicker before a cough.

His hands bound behind his back made him scoot forward in his chair. He dimly wondered how he was supposed to eat like this and then realized that perhaps he was not meant to eat at all, even though there was a perfectly portioned meal on his plate; fresh meat and bread, soup, and a cup of what he assumed was ale. His stomach sharpened at the sight as he had not had anything but some dirty water in the last week. Or, he imagined it has been a week. Maybe it was less, maybe it was more, but he knew he had no solid foods and the water was only given to keep him barely alive.

It was strange to be seated in the room he had taken so many meals. Now he was placed at the main table where the Stark family conversed and dined. For Jon it was a place of honor he was never to join. Catelyn had made sure of that, had made sure he sat at a lower table deserving as a bastard. Still, the shamed moments of his youth was nothing compared to the unease he felt now, a captive in his family's home, a forced dinner guest at the hands of a madman who has had a week to think of the proper punishment for a failed rebellion against him. A failed attempt to take back Winterfell in the name of the woman who sat across from him now, her hands laid placidly in her lap, her eyes riveted to her own filled plate.

Sansa was clean and dressed in a simple grey gown trimmed in dark fur and her washed auburn hair gleaned in a simple braid. She refused to look at him, her brother, the man who attempted to fulfill her desire to win their home back. Who could blame her. She was sitting calm and regal as befitted a lady at dinner, much like she did as a girl; prim and proper without a hair out of place. He, on the other hand, was filthy, having been offered no opportunity to clean himself after the battle. He used what little water he dared to wipe at his face but he could still feel the mud and grime and blood and death on him. Even though they has stripped him down to his shirt and breeches and removed his boots, he still reeked. If Sansa could smell him she gave no indication away but then again, she was a lady after all. His hair fell in strands of matted grime and his beard itched and he was ashamed at his sister having to see him thus. Surpassing the shame was the deep disgrace and hidden fear over losing the battle, which he heard his guards jokingly call "The Battle Of The Bastards." A bastard. It was all he would ever be and now he was a disgraced one. He had failed his family. Rickon had died -

The doors swung open and the torches lighting the dreary room flickered as jaunty boots clacked against the stone floor. Sansa remained still but Jon turned his head to see Lord Ramsay Bolton strutting his way to the head of the table, followed closely behind by one of his massive pampered dogs, a huge slobbering beast that stopped and sat on its haunches while Ramsay flopped almost comically into the high-backed chair where the honorable Eddard Stark used to sit. He was dressed as if it were a royal feast he was attending; a dark velvet tunic with shining buttons. His hair was smartly coiffed and he was freshly shaven. He would have been a handsome man but Jon knew his ice-blue eyes held nothing but sadistic intent. He had heard the stories of his cruelty; not much from Sansa but Theon inadvertently divulged enough for Jon to know that although he has been caged and starved, at least he still had his cock, but if he was to be executed he supposed it wouldn't matter anyway.

That the Bolton bastard hadn't killed him yet was disconcerting.

"Please, no need to rise to greet me," Ramsay announced smoothly, his hand giving the guards by the door an abrupt signal. They moved forward, their hands on the hilts of their swords, until two were a step behind Jon's chair and the other two were a pace behind Sansa's. "I was hoping for a wonderful dinner this evening with my beloved wife and her bastard brother." He smiled but it was empty, almost sinister.

Sansa did not move or look at her husband and Jon stared in confusion as Ramsay leaned forward to retrieve the gravy bowl, pouring some almost delicately over his slab of meat before cutting it skillfully into exactly even pieces. He popped one into his mouth, savoring the bite before washing it down with a swig of ale. He paused, cup in mid-air.

"Oh, Bastard, you are not hungry I see? A shame, really, I had the cooks specially prepare this in honor of my wife's return. I apologize for the delay. I had been detained on...business." His fanatical eyes swept over to Sansa, who was as still as a statue. "Oh, how silly of me. I forgot you cannot possibly eat with your hands behind your back. Wife, would you be so kind as to help your bastard brother?"

"Yes, my Lord," Sansa replied, her voice thin as she gracefully stood and made her way around the table to Jon's side. He could smell her then, a sweet scent, almost floral. Even through his own stink he could take in the much more pleasant smell of his sister.

He watched as she leaned over to retrieve his knife and fork, cutting up the meat with some effort. Jon noticed the knife was dull before looking up into Sansa's freshly scrubbed face. She still refused to meet his eyes but managed to bring the fork to his lips and he understood he had to eat; it was not so much an effort to do so as it was the first taste of food he's had in so long.

"There we go. The Bastard being served by the Lady Bolton of Winterfell." Ramsay's smug voice floated over as Jon accepted a sip of ale. He noticed her hands were shaking. "Now, remember, Bastard, it has been so long since you had a decent meal that you need to eat slowly or we will have a mess on our hands."

Jon obeyed as Sansa fed him methodically. The meat should have tasted as good as it smelled but it was dust in his mouth. It was the same for the fresh bread. He knew something was going to happen and he was helpless to stop Ramsay from whatever he was planning.

"I could not believe my good fortune in my guards discovering my dear wife before she could meet up with the Vale. A fine stroke of luck, as it were. Do you know what she told me, Bastard? Oh, our beloved Lady Bolton is more clever than most give her credit for."

Sansa paused and Jon heard her intake of breath but her face gave nothing away as Ramsay continued in between his own dining.

"Her little plan all along was to obliterate the Wildling forces along with her Bastard brother, just to have the Knights Of The Vale sweep in and save the day. A bastard brother used as bait to claim Winterfell in the Stark name. With you gone, there is none to contest her. She wanted you dead. I suppose we have something in common, don't we, Bastard?"

Jon looked sharply at Sansa, who stepped back, her head turned away.

"Oh, I know. It is terrible to be baseborn and belittled, isn't it? A lonely, motherless boy, looked down upon by the beautiful trueborn sister. Mistreated and disregarded by her. Then, you become Lord Commander, the highest title you could ever hope to attain as a bastard... only to wage a battle in her name and lose. Had I not taken mercy on you, Bastard, you would have died either way."

"Jon." Her voice wavered. " I -"

"My dear wife! You know my rule of silence at the dinner table. I insist you return to your seat and partake of the fine food before you, before I throw it to my beloved hound." As if on cue, the black dog next to Ramsay licked its chops. Jon watched through narrowed eyes as Sansa couldn't repress a shudder as she waltzed back to her seat which the guards pulled out for her. "Good! Now, eat your meat."

Disregarding her, Ramsay turned towards Jon and smirked.

"I was legitimized by the King, you know. A proper Lord with a very improper Lady, don't you think? My poor wife betrayed the both of us. Women, all they do is deceive and manipulate. I am sure you did not see her treachery coming, with as beautiful and persuasive as she is? Look at her, so healthy and unharmed. I do spoil her." He suddenly looked pensive as he turned towards Sansa, who seemed to be floundering with her hands. "My dear wife, what is the matter? I told you to eat your meat."

His tone turned almost amused and Jon almost missed it, as submerged as he was in his reeling thoughts. Was it the hunger, the mental torture, the captivity in a cage, his own filth emitting from him, was it the truth that made him think of Sansa as betraying him? She always did treat him as the bastard he was, always too good to have anything to do with him aside from games they collectively played as children. She took on her mother's imperious attitude towards him. She was like a miniature Catelyn, the woman who made his life miserable when all he did was long for a mother to hold him. It would benefit her for him to be led into a slaughter with words about family and duty and honor. She did not tell him of the Vale. There must have been a reason for withholding the valuable piece of information from him. His death would mean the demise of the last male contender for Winterfell now that Bran was missing and Robb and Rickon were dead. The blood of the Wildlings meant nothing to her, just as his own blood was nothing -

Jon's jaw clenched as his eyes transfixed on Sansa. Beautiful, flawless Sansa, who seemed not all all affected by their unfortunate turn of events.

"I - I cannot cut my meat, my lord husband. It seems the servants have forgotten to set a knife."

"Is that so? Well, your dear bastard brother is not using his, perhaps you might borrow his?" Ramsay leered as Sansa stood. 

"No, wait, my sweet wife, I believe I have a knife you may use."

Ramsay made a leap from his chair and sauntered over to Sansa. Jon watched as the Bolton bastard drew a dagger from its sheath at his waist, holding it by its' bulbous hilt. It was a fine piece, long of blade and bejeweled. Sansa's expression changed when she spied it and she shuddered when Ramsay offered it to her and she did not take it from his hand.

"What, do you not want to take the dagger? You've taken this dagger before, Sansa. You know it cuts quite well."

"Forgive me, my lord, I am not so hungry." Her chin jutted up but her lip trembled and she avoided Ramsay's eyes. 

"No? I worry for you, my dear. You've eaten so little since my men saved you from killing yourself in your tent. You should be grateful that your life was saved, and spared, and I've welcomed you home with very forgiving arms." Ramsay slid the tip of the blade over Sansa's cheek.

Jon saw her flinch slightly but she did not move otherwise, her hands palm-down on the table. Ramsay kissed her soundly where the tip of the dagger pressed delicately. Jon could only stare, his emotions a torrid mess in his head. His impulse should have been to struggle against the straps, to stop his sister from being cut, but the betrayed and hurt part of him for a moment thought she should suffer some consequence of her treason. Not to Ramsay, but to him.

"My beautiful wife. How could I execute such beauty for treason? I am a man, after all. But she does not see me that way, do you, darling?" The bastard licked up her cheek to her temple. "She does not appreciate my mercy, and surely does not seem to welcome my cock at night. Why, anything else is preferred in her cunt, or mouth, or that pretty arse."

Sansa started to breathe heavily but Ramsay pulled his face and dagger away from her, his hand reaching up to gently caress and stroke her perfectly combed auburn hair. It shined an odd copper color in the light of the fire... the color of old, dried blood. Jon exhaled, relieved to know he would not have to see Sansa's blood spilled...and be indifferent to it. He tried to shake his head of his muddied thoughts but they would not leave as he looked at his lovely, scheming sister. Sansa seemed more tense at the gentle ministrations than she did at the threat of the blade.

Jon swallowed, aware of an ache in his throat. Sansa had wanted him dead. Dead so she and she alone could command Winterfell without contest. After all he has risked for her. Spitting on him and his maternal parentage. He had always been a mere bastard to her. Nothing more, nothing less. But what was less than a bastard?

Swiftly Ramsay slammed down the dagger into the middle of the table by a plate filled with bread with such force that the bread bounced and the blade sunk in deep. The sound made both Jon and Sansa jump. Jon focused on the dagger stuck halfway down into the Stark supping table, relieved that Ramsay had not decided to use it on him. Theon was fresh in his mind and he dreaded suffering the same fate. It was a false sense of security as Ramsay promptly yanked the dagger out of its place, gripping it so tightly Jon could see the whites of his knuckles where he stood across the table. Ramsay did not even glance over at him but instead leaned over to whisper into Sansa's ear, but loud enough for Jon to hear.

"My dear wife, it pains me to do this, but you must understand you need to be more appreciative of your husband. I could have had you flayed. I could have thrown you to my guards, then to the servants, then to the dogs. Instead I am willing to let your transgressions be forgiven, and all that I demand is you resume your duties as a wife. Which, is to gladly open your legs and give me an heir and be grateful for the mercy I decided to bestow on you."

He yanked Sansa up to her feet and Sansa let out a small cry before biting her lip. Her eyes glanced fearfully down at the dagger. Jon tugged at the restraints then, a small sense of dread and denial floating over him. He might hate Sansa right now for her duplicity but he could not idly sit and watch the Bolton Bastard kill his own sister. Even if she did deserve the sentence of death according to the laws of man.

It happened so quickly Jon didn't fully understand what was going on; Ramsay turning Sansa to the side, crouching down with the dagger, and the sound of fabric ripping filling the echoing hall. More tearing, fast and relentless, made speedy by a man well versed in the use of knives. He heard whimpers from Sansa and a weak "no" in almost a cry; she turned her head away so he could not see her face. Long pieces of grey flung carelessly over to the two guards behind Sansa, who caught and held them, expressionless. Jon heard a light chuckle from the guards behind his chair as a more faint rip brought forth a shorter piece of white sailing across the table, nearly hitting Jon in the face but caught by the guard to his left. For a disoriented moment Jon wondered what would happen to the guard if he had failed to catch the white cotton. Small clothes, Jon thought dimly. They were small clothes.

"No?" Ramsay's tone pitched high in a mimicking voice as he grinned. "Did I hear a no from you, my love?" He turned Sansa violently around to face Jon then, and his eyes took in the sight of her dress completely cut away in the front across the waist and below, exposing her naked flesh. Showing the red hair of her cunt and flatness of her abdomen where the firelight caught streaks of scars on her upper thighs. Jon stared ungentlemanly for a moment and felt a stir between his legs despite himself then dropped his eyes, his chest feeling numb.

"Ever seen a trueborn lady's cunt, Bastard? I bet not. Only stinking whores and servants for the likes of you. Even my guards have seen more trueborn cunt than you. Look at her, Bastard. Your sister who wanted you dead."

The guard to his right yanked his head up and Jon looked at Sansa's face, which was tucked down in shame.

"Oh, I see, the table is preventing a perfect view. How inconsiderate of me." Ramsay reached his arm out to the table, clearing all the trays of food away from the center,then shoved Sansa forward into the table. "Stand on the table, Lady Bolton. Your bastard brother needs a better view." 

Sansa scrambled onto the table and stood, visibly shaking. Jon's head was jerked back even more and he had nowhere else to look but directly at Sansa's cunt. He tried to look at her thigh, at her clenched hands, at anything other than between her legs.

"Ah, pretty, is she not? I consider myself lucky to have such a gem, treason and all. I try so hard to be a forgiving husband, and yet, she'd even prefer to fuck this dagger than me." Ramsay once again slammed down the dagger into the table where he had it previously. It went in only half way this time. He leaned casually into the table, his elbow resting, looking up seemingly adoringly at his petrified wife. "Go on, then. Since you have no desire for me, fuck my dagger instead."

The guards relaxed their stance as Jon froze in place, not that he had much room to move. Sansa spoke in a near sob.

"My - my Lord, I -"

"Fuck the dagger like you would a cock you crave, or I will fuck you with the point. I've always wondered what it would be like to flay from the inside. Spit on it first, my dear. You'll need it wet."

His words must have held more than a hint of promise as Sansa clumsily fell to her on her knees, summoning up all the saliva she could to spit on top of the dagger before scooting to hover over its hilt. The top of the handle was squared but the rest was a bulbous sphere down to the protruding wings. Her knees splayed farther apart to ease her lower until her cunt touched the top. 

"Go on. I want you to watch your bastard brother as you fuck yourself. Spread your cunt wide for him to see, so pretty pink. Bastard, pay attention. Look away and I will start cutting your sister where her pretty clothes cover. She always looks so beautiful when she bleeds." He talked as if he were giving instructions on how to wash a tunic.

Sansa's trembling fingers stretched her pussy lips wide and Jon could see the pink, so pink, as she lowered herself down, her knees skidding on the wooden table. Jon watched mesmerized as the thick bejeweled hilt disappeared into her cunt until the wings touched her lips, smashing them up, her curly red hair cupping around as if to hold it in. All the while Sansa let out whimpered little cries, tears forming in her eyes as she bit her lip to fight from crying.

"Move. Fuck the knife, my Lady." He leaned in, taking in the sight and sighing. "Be thankful it isn't a sword."

Jon concentrated on her cunt, lest he meet her eyes that he felt piercing into him. Up, down, she moved with careful precision, balancing, her hands at her sides, what was left of her skirts draping behind her.

"Faster, my dear. Touch yourself." Sansa did as she was told, her fingertips running through her pubic hair to rub at her clit as she picked up her speed. "Tell Jon the truth, how you wanted him dead. Tell him how you prefer the dagger to his own cock."

"I - I planned for you to die," she rasped out, and Jon snapped his eyes to hers. They were a watery blue but they were like daggers into his own. "I used you. I commanded the Knights of the Vale to charge in late. So your troops would be decimated -"

Jon heard it then, muffled against the anger rising and roaring in his ears at her words; the sound of slickness, of wet against the dagger as she lifted up and back down at a rapid pace. He tore his eyes away to watch as she massaged her nub. Her cunt was starting to swell.

Jon felt his cock rising against his wishes.

"I see you are not telling your bastard brother you prefer my dagger to him! Not even my dagger, Lady Bolton? You hurt me so and insult this fine piece of work!" He pulled her by her braid to lift her off of his dagger, tearing it out from its stronghold, holding it to his nose. "You seemed to like my dagger very, very well."

Sansa was left kneeling, her body shaking now and her hands covering her wet cunt, visibly ashamed as the red spread across her cheeks. Ramsay made his way over to Jon, sticking the hilt under his nose. It smelled of cunt juices, of Sansa's excitement. 

"Do you like the smell, Bastard? Taste it." Jon did as he told. It tasted like honey over the metallic of the dagger. "You don't seem to mind the flavor of your own sister's cunt. I've never demeaned myself to do it. Truly the lowliest of bastards love their sister's pussy. Shall we put it to the true test? Sansa, come over here."

Without a shred of protest, Sansa scooted over to Jon, afraid to stand, afraid to sit, too scared to climb off the table.

"That's a good little wife. You have my permission to let your brother lick your cunt. You fucked my dagger so well, this is your reward."

An encouraging push moved Sansa forward until she knelt in front of Jon's face, her knees slightly over the edge of the table. He could smell her sweat, her cunt, her fear but he did not meet her eyes. Instead, he stared at the plush curls of auburn and milky white thighs.

"Go on. Push his face in. He has no use of his hands, you know." Ramsay let out a false sigh and Jon felt her hands weave into his filthy matted hair. He knew anything dirty disgusted her and how she must have recoiled as she brought his face to her cunt. He thought about resisting but he knew the punishment of disobedience would be far greater than giving head to his sister. So, he opened his mouth to lick and suck into her folds, his nose buried into the soft thatch above them. 

She tasted sweet and salty. Like fruit or lemons. Lemoncakes with salt added. He nearly vomited - even though there was nothing left in his stomach - when he realized he was tasting Ramsay's remnants of seeding her. Still he continued and soon he heard Sansa's gasps, not of fear but of pleasure. It made him bury his tongue inside of her and suck all the more diligently. She wanted him dead, she always treated him like an outsider, but here they were on equal footing. A bastard's tongue could give her pleasure. She was not so highborn now...

Sansa was thrusting her hips into him, her hands grasping his head harder to her, and he kept going, her juices drenching his mouth. The guards were shuffling uncomfortably - no doubt getting hard watching the show - and he heard the dog whine over by Ramsay's chair. It all seemed so far away as Sansa's gasps turned into stifled moans. He looked up and saw her trying to hold back any noise, any signs of pleasure and it angered him. He could feel her swelling under his mouth -

"Enough!" Ramsay roared, pushing Sansa away so roughly she fell off the table and onto the floor with a cry. Jon looked in confusion into Ramsay's angry face, twisted in such a way his good looks were eradicated into pure ugliness. Wasn't he doing what he was ordered to do?

"Guards! Untie him, put him on the table!" 

Jon should have been relieved when the ties around his wrists were cut, but all four guards grabbed him, waiting as Ramsay threw everything off the table except for a flask of wine and his cup at the head of the table where his place was. Everything shattered and clanked to the floor with a clatter, and Ramsay gave the command for his dog to eat the scraps. Before he could be thrown onto the table, Ramsay strutted over and grabbed between his legs. Terror struck as the man held the dagger menacingly before breaking out in a wicked grin.

"The Bastard has a hard cock for his sister!" He said it with a laugh and the guards chuckled in unison. Jon blushed furiously red while the guards received the go ahead and he was roughly slammed onto his back. He groaned, no fight or will left in him. His body was battered and bruised as it was; now he would have another ache or two to add to the list. His head fell back and his arms went limp at his side, his wrists and hands still numb but the feeling was starting to come back slowly. He turned to the side where Sansa and fallen and she was still on the floor, crumpled and limp like the rag dolls she used to play with when she was young.

Ramsay grabbed her by her hair and pulled her up while she let out a small shriek. He shoved a hand between her legs and pulled back, looking, disgusted.

"Lady Bolton, it saddens me greatly you are never like this for your husband. You will be punished. As will your brother. I will give you both something to remember for as long as you are alive. And how long does anyone know that will be?"

He whistled high and his dog trotted over as he extended his hand downward, his other still a fist in Sansa's braid. The massive beast eagerly licked his hand clean of Sansa's juices as if it was a treat he was familiar with. Jon cringed more at that than Ramsay dragging her to the head of the table, making her stand beside him. 

"Pull his breeches down enough to expose his cock," he ordered.

Jon weakly tried to fight but it was no use as rough hands coldly unlaced and pulled down his dirty breeches to just below his arse. His cock sprang free, fully erect to his shame. 

"Look, my sweet wife, it is larger and longer than your dagger-cock!" The guards snorted again while one adjusted his own cock. "Here is your punishment, sweet. You are going to fuck your brother while all of us enjoy the show. Oh, but Bastard! If you cum, I will cut your cock off where you lay. And sweet - if you _don't_ cum, I will slice off those swollen little lips of yours...and I don't mean from your mouth."

Jon couldn't raise his head but he heard Sansa whimper as she was pushed onto the table and he heard her crawling up towards him. The guards hurried to their seats and he heard Ramsay pour wine into a cup and slam down the flask. Soon enough Sansa was hovering over him, straddling him, grabbing his member and sinking down. She took him to the hilt, just like she did the dagger, with a little cry and he didn't know if it was pleasure or pain but it didn't matter. She was tight and warm and wet and even though he was beaten and starved, he found himself already on the brink of cumming.

Sansa moved, fucking him, riding his cock. Dimly he was aware of how filthy he was - he hadn't had a bath since before the battle - and he was inside her with his grime, his sweat, his dirt. He was soiling her. Internally he was in despair but also there was a primal urge, something ready to reach out and strangle him. He had to stay sane. He had to remove himself from being forced to fuck his own sister but his body wanted nothing more. She was arching back, a hand moving to rub herself. She was intent on her climax and he was intent to keep his cock. Control. He needed control. He felt her warmth tightening and knew she was close -

"Jon -" It was a whimper, a plea, or maybe it was her pleasure; it was so low he wasn't sure he heard it but a crashing of a chair meant Ramsay did; Jon looked up in a dizzied horror as Ramsay stood on top of the table behind them, his dagger wielding. Before he could blink Ramsay crouched down behind Sansa, grabbing hold of her bodice as the knife ripped down the front with such force it tore the top of her dress in two. Sansa cried out as Ramsay stripped her of the rest of her gown leaving her completely naked. She had stopped her gyrations to cover her breasts and he heard her voice beg in a way he'd never heard before.

"Please, my Lord, mercy! I was about to peak, I was, I swear to you -"

"You little bitch. You whore. You like fucking your bastard brother? I am your Lord and Master. You will come for ME." 

Jon let out a heavy breath as Sansa was shoved down onto him, her breasts smashed up against his sweaty, sour-smelling chest, her face so close to his he couldn't focus. He heard Ramsay cursing as he untied his breeches and Jon lay like a dead man. 

"Give me my flask!" He demanded, and a guard scurried to meet his order. Seconds later he felt the wine flowing down from Sansa's arse onto his thighs. Sansa's fingers scraped into his shoulders and she screamed into his chest, her vibration from her mouth oddly arousing him. She was shoved into him and he felt something from within, from inside of her, a pressure of sorts and her cunt seemed even tighter now, leaving him breathless at the constriction -

"You little bitch, I wetted you up with the finest wine. I could have shoved it in dry as a fucking bone - it is what you deserve -"

A grunt from Ramsay and Sansa was pushed into him, again and again, drawing a cry from her each time, and he realized Ramsay's cock was in her arse. Her nails dug in deep, drawing blood, but he didn't care. Every thrust from Ramsay tightened her around him, he could feel Ramsay's cock -

"You deserve two bastards fucking you. Lady Sansa, trueborn heir of Winterfell, with two baseborn cocks rutting you. Not so proud and disdainful now, are we, my dear?" 

Sansa didn't - or couldn't - respond and Jon was helpless beneath her. Helpless to the pleasure, numb to her pain, there was no way out except to not cum. 

"Do you have something to say to the bastard brother you're fucking? About how sorry you are you wanted him to die? Tell him -" Ramsay grunted with his efforts, becoming a little breathless himself. "My guards and dagger are waiting for you to keep silent -"

"I - I'm sorry I hoped you would die -" she gasped into his chest. "I am so, so sorry I used you, I lied, I - I wanted your Wildling men to die -"

Sansa. She was the reason they were here, now, committing the unforgivable act of incest with a madman in control. She was the reason his Wildling allies died in battle, she was the reason he was balls deep in his own sister and loving every second of it. She would be the reason they would continue to be tortured until Ramsay has had enough and they would die, too -

Through his pleasure and pain the anger released through him, warm as the fires they burned him with at night to keep him awake, as warm as Sansa's cunt. His arms found life and they wrapped around her to pull her tight against him, hard, as hard as he could, his hand crushing her head to his shoulder. His body thrust up against Ramsay's brutal force and he fucked her hard, as hard as his weakened body would allow. She broke him, not Ramsay; she broke him with her words, and her lies, and her cunt. Her cries were muffled now and he shut them out; he didn't care, he couldn't care. He heard Ramsay's maniacal laugh but it didn't matter either; nothing mattered but the force of his cock slamming into her, hurting her, pleasing her, taking her and making her pay -

He heard Ramsay slapping her arse and her cries turned to moans; Jon felt it then, the fluttering around his cock and a gush of wetness flowing where they were joined while she cried out affirmation of her climax, hearing Ramsay's triumphant laugh as he pulled viciously away and Sansa moaned into his chest, falling still against him, her heart hammering. 

Sansa was brutally pulled off of him and Jon managed a grin; he had not peaked. Still as hard as a rock. He could keep his cock, his sister-fucking cock, for now at least. He knew now why Ramsay had not given him Theon's punishment... he wanted him intact. For Sansa.

"Well done, Bastard. You get to keep your cock for another day. We will have more times ahead, you and I and my sweet, loving wife. Count on that, Bastard."

Jon's laugh filled the room as the guards pulled him from the table, breeches still undone, vaguely wondering if maybe next time, if he was good enough, Ramsay would let him cum. Inside Sansa's mouth or arse or cunt, it didn't matter; as long as it was his sweet, beautiful, manipulative, lying sister he spilled into.


End file.
